Poetry
by AngolMoaChan
Summary: The Anglo-Portuguese alliance is just that; an alliance. It's a courtship of laced words and shy smiles, of literature and art, and of two people that were more alike then they would ever know. England/Portugal


poetry

angolmoachan

**to be short; i love this pairing. ;u; **

_First time he kissed me, he but only kissed  
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;  
And ever since, it grew more clean and white,  
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 'Oh, list,'  
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst  
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,  
Than that first kiss._

I

The Anglo-Portuguese alliance had started as a hush-hush secret between leaders and two nations; however, three months after the courtship of Arthur Kirkland and Afonso Gabriel de João Silva had begun, the entire continent of Europe seemed to know. Francis sniggered at Arthur as he walked by in hallway, Antonio whined to his elder brother about "he's not even Catholic, hermano!", and even _Austria _snickered quietly when the flushed Brit sat down beside Afonso and mumbled a "How do you do?"

It was things like that that made Arthur so introverted when it came to their newly blossoming relationship. After discovering just how much they had in common—to be honest, it was more than Arthur would have ever expected, Afonso being fun loving and cheerful and him, well, being himself—the two of them had bonded almost chemically, practically attached at the hip as they discussed literature over tea and sat fireside laughing until their sides hurt. But, although Arthur had asked him to ally himself with him—the very roundabout way of asking "Will you _marry _me?"—and Afonso had chuckled lightly and asked "Aren't you moving too fast?", they hadn't acted on it. Period.

Afonso wondered if the Brit knew he had been joking.

But no, no, he knew the British nation too well. He knew that was a load of crap, and if anything, Arthur, dear Arthur, was just nervous. And so, one summer day, when they sat off the massive cliffs overlooking the water on the Portuguese coast, Afonso made the first move; he slipped his fingers in between Arthur's and remarked, so casually, "Beautiful, isn't it?"

Arthur turned his head and gave him the strangest look—but moved back to the setting sun and nodded, bringing Afonso's hand up and pressing a gentle kiss to it. "Portugal is, yes."

His hand tingled for days afterwards.

_The second passed in height  
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,  
Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!  
That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown,  
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede._

ii.

When Arthur came to Portugal's house late one evening, thoroughly exhausted from meetings with his people and God only knew what else, he dragged himself up the stairs to visit-strictly business, he said, just like his boss ordered—and collapse in the guest room Portugal kept for him, only to find it…blocked.

Blocked meaning there was a dresser about twice as big as him in front of it.

Arthur gulped, wondering if the other Nation was mad at him. That wouldn't be good. This alliance had to happen, for the good of both of them—and then he noticed the note on the door. _"See you soon_," it read, in simple, slightly rushed handwriting. A grin came over his face as he took it, read it, then turned on his heel, looking at the room across the hallway and striding in, shutting the door behind him. Afonso was asleep, it appeared, but certainly with enough space for the Brit to lay down beside him; Arthur shook his head, unable to stop the grin from spreading across his face.

"Cheeky bastard." He murmured as he shucked off his clothes, not bothering to change into his nightclothes as he crawled under the thick duvet, feeling the heat radiating off of the Iberian nation as he-shyly now—pressed lightly against his back, chin resting on the curve of a tan shoulder. Afonso rolled over slightly, turning towards him, fast asleep, and Arthur felt his smile turn a little more fond. Lightly, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead, the barest brush of lips against skin, before quickly pulling away, face glowing red.

Afonso smiled and latched onto the other suddenly, earning him a startled squawk from the Brit as he nuzzled against his cheek, ever affectionate. "Welcome back. Hope you don't mind the remodling."

"Not a bit." He mumbled, letting his eyes fall shut as inwardly, he rejoiced—he'd kissed him again!—and leaned into the touch of the Portuguese man. "Not one bit."

_The third upon my lips was folded down  
In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,  
I have been proud and said, 'My love, my own.'_

iii.

It happened over literature, the perfect circumstance for their relationship. The musty smell of books surrounded them as Afonso and Arthur sat together, poring over one of Afonso's own sonnets. He was the land of poets, after all, and the Brit had offered to translate his poetry into English. The concept of saudade was a lot harder than he thought, however, and he found himself getting closer and closer to Afonso as he explained the feeling of melancholy, of emptiness—scooting in his chair, listening intently. Arthur realized that maybe they were two kindred spirits…it was just that Afonso hid it better.

Today was one of those days. As they stared over the translation the two had come up with for Sonnet VIII, Afonso read it aloud in that accent of his, stumbling once or twice but—god damn, it was the poet's voice.

"_Indeed this very love which is my boast,  
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,  
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow  
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost,---  
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,  
I should not love withal, unless that thou  
Hadst set me an example, shown me how,  
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,  
And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak  
Of love even, as a good thing of my own:  
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,  
And placed it by thee on a golden throne,---  
And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)  
Is by thee only, whom I love alone. " _

And as Arthur stares at him, he suddenly realizes how heartfelt the words were. How much Afonso had meant it. Portugal levels him with a small smile and murmurs, "The translation is perfect."

That smile makes Arthur want to kiss him. So he does.

Afonso doesn't even react with surprise—he just hummed softly against his lips, his arms coming up to snake around his neck as the parchment with the translation fell to the floor, fluttering down to their feet. And as Arthur finally felt the butterflies in his stomach take flight, he wondered why in the hell he didn't do this any sooner.

He doesn't know it (or maybe he does), but Afonso wondered the same thing.

---

The poems are from a collection called "Sonnets from the Portuguese"by Elizabeth Barret Browning. The first is Sonnet 43, and the one Port speaks is Sonnet 8.


End file.
